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Prologue

The Alentejo, Portugal

The steel blade of the machado slices into the tree with delicate precision. Another blow, from above, immediately follows. The two polished, fan-shaped axe heads send flashes of light glinting between the overhanging branches as the rhythmic strikes continue, keeping perfect time with each other until reaching the crescendo.

Stepping forward, a tirador uses the wooden handle of his machado to prise away the bark. A cracking, tearing sound ensues as the large, rectangular slab of cork peels from the trunk like the skin from an orange and tumbles gently downwards as if in slow motion. It lands with an emphatic thump and a groan on the scrubby undergrowth, sending a cloud of mosquitoes whirling upwards from their daytime hideaway.

The sky above the ancient forest is a fierce, unyielding blue, the soil underfoot a dry and sandy brown. Birds, disturbed by the disruption to the habitual deep silence of their home, call raucously through the trees, their clamour competing with the ringing shouts of the harvesters and the continual thudding of their axes.

In the Alentejo region of Portugal, the cork harvest takes place every year as it always has, over centuries and through generations. A cork oak tree can live for up to two hundred years and will yield up its bark sixteen times or more during its lifespan. Such capacity for renewal, regrowth and regeneration is unsurpassed in nature.

There is a saying here and it goes like this:

“If you are planting for yourself, you plant vines.

If you are planting for your children, you plant olives.

But if you are planting for your grandchildren, you plant cork oak.”